“Oh, what made you?  Why didn’t you save me?” she said, looking up to him with an expression of reproach.

He had no excuse.  He knew how innocent she was, and he held her in his arms as he would once have held the Golden Haired, had she come to him with a tale of woe.

“Let me see that letter again,” he said.

She gave it to him; and he read once more the cruel lines, in which there was still much of love for the poor thing, to whom they were addressed.

“You will surely find friends who will care for you, until the time when I may come to really make you mine.”

Hugh repeated these words twice, aloud, his heart throbbing with the noble resolve, that the confidence she had placed in him by coming there, should not be abused, for he would be true to the trust, and care for the poor, little, half-crazed Adah, moaning so piteously beside him, and as he read the last line, saying eagerly: 

“He speaks of coming back.  Do you think he ever will? or could I find him if I should try?  I thought of starting once, but it was so far; and there was Willie.  Oh, if he could see Willie!  Mr. Worthington, do you believe he loves me one bit?”

Hugh said at last, that the letter contained many assurances of affection.

“It seems family pride has something to do with it.  I wonder where his people live, or who they are?  Did he never tell you?”

“No,” and Adah shook her head mournfully.

“Would you go to them?” Hugh asked quickly; and Adah answered: 

“Sometimes I’ve thought I would.  I’d brave his proud mother—­I’d lay Willie in her lap.  I’d tell her whose he was, and then I’d go away and die.”  Then, after a pause, she continued:  “Once, Mr. Worthington, I went down to the river, and said I’d end my wretched life, but God held me back.  He cooled my scorching head—­He eased the pain, and on the very spot where I meant to jump, I kneeled down and said:  ‘Our Father.’  No other words would come, only these:  ‘Lead us not into temptation.’  Wasn’t it kind in God to save me?”

There was a radiant expression in the sweet face as Adah said this, but it quickly passed away and was succeeded by one of deep concern when Hugh abruptly said: 

“Do you believe in God?”

“Oh, Mr. Worthington.  Don’t you?  You do, you must, you will,” and Adah shrank away from him as from a monster.

The action reminded him of the Golden Haired, when on the deck of the St. Helena he had asked her a similar question, and anxious further to probe the opinion of the girl beside him, he continued: 

“If, as you think, there is a God who knew and saw when you were about to drown yourself, why didn’t He prevent the cruel wrong to you?  Why did He suffer it?”

“What He does we know not now, but we shall know hereafter,” Adah said, reverently, adding:  “If George had feared God, he would not have left me so; but he didn’t, and perhaps he says there is no God—­but you don’t, Mr. Worthington.  Your face don’t look like it.  Tell me you believe,” and in her eagerness Adah grasped his arm beseechingly.